


Untimely Visit

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Doom (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-12
Updated: 2006-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1631105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost ten years before the movie takes place, John Grimm has a truly awful day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untimely Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Koanju

 

 

 

 

The middle of a firefight was not the most opportune time to be distracted.

Everything had gone to hell after the explosion went off. It was supposed to have been a simple mission - infiltrate the enemy stronghold. Immobilize any encountered combatants. Seek and acquire any armaments stored within the compound. But for what was supposed to have been nothing more than a loosely joined band of political extremists their target was extremely well organized and even better armed. It wasn't until they lost the first squad amidst the acrid smell of C4 that they even realized the entire place was wired with plastic explosives.

::I should have been off duty today,:: Marine officer John Grimm thought bitterly as he pressed his back flat to the chipped concrete wall. A bullet clipped the corner, sending up bits of gravel dust. ::I don't know how long she'll wait.::

It had been a long time since John had a visitor on base, let alone one as important as whom he'd been expecting that morning. He'd lain awake all night after getting her call. Even now he couldn't shake the upcoming meeting from his brain. ::What could she possibly have to say now?:: he wondered continuously, even as he turned the corner to spray a barrage of lead against the far end of the hall. He heard two men cry out before ducking back to safety. He snorted to himself as he reloaded. ::After all this time? Another lecture on my failed career, maybe. After a mission like this, I might finally agree.::

At the moment he only knew the whereabouts of one other member of his squad, and that was only because they were trapped together at the end of this corridor, pinned down by enemy fire: a smart talking sharp shooter he only knew as "Duke." They were both new to the unit, but John wouldn't go so far as to call them comrades. He hadn't joined up for that brothers-in-arms bullshit.

That was more Duke's M.O. "He'll be here," he kept saying as he and John switched places. "I already gave him our position. It'll be any minute now." He turned, fired another round at the human blockade, and swung back as swiftly and effortlessly as his partner. "Just you wait and see."

"If he isn't already dead," John grunted. They had already lost a lot of men, and called in reinforcements from another regiment. Whatever good that would do them.

John spun around the corner, ready to deliver another round of fire, when the explosive percussion that could only be a high velocity rail gun split the narrow corridor. He immediately retreated back into hiding as Duke gave an excited whoop. The gunfire lasted only a few seconds, drowning out all other sounds. When the noise settled, Duke grinned and stepped to leave the comfort of their alcove.

"Hey--" John snatched his arm, drawing him back. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Calm down--it's safe." Duke shook him off and continued into the open. "Ain't that right, buddy?"

"Are you hurt?" replied a steely, familiar voice.

John sighed to himself and followed Duke's lead, turning to meet their savior: a tall, burly husk of a black man. Mounted against his hip, as always, was the monstrous artillery that had long earned him the nickname Destroyer. If anyone had learned his real name, Duke was the only one who remembered.

"Naw, we're just peachy," Duke assured, giving the man a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Thanks to you. Didn't I tell you he'd rescue us?"

"I'm grateful," John retorted, half sarcastically. His eyes darted to the scattered corpses at the end of the hall, torn in jagged edges and one or two of them still twitching. His stomach turned a little. ::At least she'll never have to see this.::

John shook himself. "Do you have comm?"

"We've been ordered to fall back to the first floor, southeast corner," Destroyer reported. "Reinforcements are coming down on the roof. RRTS."

"Stealing our glory again," Duke complained. "I can't wait 'til I get that promotion."

"If you can get it," Destroyer said. Though his voice was as stern as always, he could have been teasing. He turned to head to the southeast.

"Hey! You don't have to be like that, Bro."

John rolled his eyes and followed. ::Good for them,:: he thought, stretching his sore arms before shouldering his weapon once more. ::Male bonding and heroics - I guess that's why most people join the corps. Good for them.::

The southeast corner of the compound had been set aside for permanent residents and staff. Several of the remaining Marine soldiers had already gathered there, holed up in the small cafeteria. John was surprised to see a few others from his unit still alive, but there were also a lot of unfamiliar faces - men from other battalions, called in on the operation. The most senior of the officers seemed to be a captain John didn't recognize, so he left the checking in to his peers; sucking up to one superior officer was bad enough without doing so to a stranger. Instead he moved to the side of the room where someone was handing out supplies to refresh his ammo, if there was any to be had.

"Outta my way, kid."

A bony shoulder shoved against him, turning John sideways with the unexpected force. He grunted a curse under his breath, and almost pushed him back--the instinctive response often displayed by prideful teenagers. When he caught a glance of the armful of bandages the man was carrying he held himself back. The stranger continued on, to another soldier who sat propped against a wall, already being attended to for a wound in his thigh.

"You're a lucky bastard, aren't ya?" the attending man said around a strained chuckle. He looked as if he might have been blonde once, but now his hair was matted down by sweat and oil. "A few degrees to the right, and he would'a ripped you a new pussy."

"Fuck you, Portman," the wounded grumbled.

::Portman?:: John frowned, circling the pair just enough so he could see the man's face. I know him, he realized, his memory clicking the sallow cheeks and beady eyes into place. ::He served on the Endeavor with me when I joined up.:: His lips twisted into a half scowl. Officer Portman wasn't the most welcome of familiar faces to run into, but it struck him as an odd coincidence, when his mind was already so prone to reminiscence lately. It reminded him of his first days aboard the giant vessel, the drills and chores he'd been forced through. Alone on that great ship in the middle of the ocean, it was almost like being cut adrift in space, separated from everything he'd once cared about.

::Stop that.:: John rubbed his eyes. ::Keep it together, Grimm. This isn't the time for all that.::

"Hey." Portman kicked him in the ankle, harder than what was necessary to gain his attention. "You gonna stare, or are you gonna gimme a little pressure here, little girl?"

John complied, hoping that if he did as the man asked he wouldn't get asked about his lapse. He didn't recognize the soldier they were treating: a tall, clean cut man with a chiseled jaw. If not for the faint burn marks over his hands and face, he would have looked like the very model of a typical Maine.

"It doesn't look that bad," John offered as he put pressure to the wound in his thigh Portman was bandaging. "The bullet missed your femoral artery."

"Wasn't no bullet," Portman replied. His eyes were uncharacteristically sharp, as if displaying real concern over his injured fellow, despite all attempts to appear otherwise. "Shrapnel. Fucking lunatics and their bombs."

"We were careless," the wounded man said. His face was inordinately calm despite the amount of blood seeping into his pant leg. Almost wistful. "Reinforcements are supposed to be the heroes, not need rescuing themselves."

"Yeah, well, I say we fuck this mission. We ought'a just pull out and nuke the ignorant shit-heads. That'll teach'm, eh?"

John's eyes thinned. Even after all the damage he'd done, all the people he'd probably kill continuing down this career path, it still disturbed him to hear such talk. He would have been much happier immobilizing civilians than blowing holes in armed resisters. "So much for the patriotic American soldier," he muttered.

"And what do you know about it, cuntweed?" Portman retorted. "They should'a known better than giving shit to the most powerful nation in the world, get my drift? They'll get what's coming to them."

"And likewise, I'm sure."

Portman glowered at him, but before he could respond they were interrupted by a short bark of laughter from their injured charge. The man's lips were twisted in a wry grin. "I like you, Portman," he declared. "You remind me why I hate myself."

Portman stared, uncomprehending. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

He didn't get to answer. John heard a distinct clang of metal hitting the floor, bouncing only slightly...the kind of dull noise a grenade might make, were it tossed into a room of weary marines. And then John got his second taste of hell for the day.

*****

John Grimm woke up flat on his back, several hours later. The first thing he saw were the flickering neon lights of the base infirmary, which he was rather familiar with by now. He'd earned his share of hospital stays over the short years of his enlistment. This time didn't feel any different - sore muscles everywhere, splitting headache, and a distinct, burning pain in his left side that could only have been caused by a bullet. ::Funny. I don't remember getting shot. I was blown up.::

As he considered this turn of events, he glanced about to see if he had any company. ::That poor friend of Portman's. Blown up twice in one night. Being a Marine kind of sucks after all. Just like she said it...::

His eyes fell on a pair of crossed legs just beside his bed - a woman's crossed legs, clad in khaki pants. John felt his chest tighten as he lifted his gaze to the rest of his visitor. He hadn't seen her in person like this for over a year now; it somehow felt like a lifetime, and yet only a day, at the same time. She didn't notice him watching her at first--her eyes were closed, head lowered in a light doze. It was always too warm in the infirmary and she'd pushed up the sleeves of her blue sweater up to her elbows. With her bare arms exposed he could see the silver bracelet on her left wrist that had one been their mother's.

John turned his head away. Maybe if he stayed quiet, pretended to be unconscious a little longer, she would lose her patience and finally just leave without either of them having to say a word. But then, John had never faired well with luck.

Samantha stirred, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears as she stretched and reminded herself of her surroundings. "John?" She turned in her chair to better face him. "Are you awake?"

John sighed - no escape this time. "I'm awake," he replied quietly.

"Thank god..." For a moment there was worry in her voice, but then she straightened, collected as always. "When they said you'd been sent out on a mission, I was afraid you might come back like this."

"I don't suppose they told you what happened." John stretched experimentally, taking stock of his injuries: some minor burns, and certainly a gunshot wound. "I don't remember getting shot."

"I only heard a little, from your superior officer," Samantha admitted. "But he said you pulled some men out of a bad situation. You'll be commended."

John snorted lightly. "That figures. The one time I'm a hero, and I don't remember it."

They both fell silent, awkward. John licked his lips and tried to find something to offer, other than small talk and idle chat, to fill the space between them. He was beginning to remember why he had dreaded this meeting. How a loaded rifle could be less intimidating than two brown eyes was beyond him. "I'm sorry," he finally managed to force out. "For making you worry."

He'd said the wrong thing. Samantha lowered her eyes as she collected her response--the admonishment he should have been expecting. "You already know how I feel about this, John. It's supposed to be a proud profession, but all I ever hear is how much you're getting hurt." She rubbed her eyes. "Just like in high school."

John pressed two fingers against his freshly bandaged abdomen, wincing. "What do you want me to say?" he replied, his voice tipping slightly in defensiveness. He felt guilty for every word before he said it. "That I like getting shot at? It's just a job, Sam, and I'm good at it. You just said it yourself." He scoffed. "I'm to be 'commended'."

"You can't keep punishing yourself like this," Samantha said, her own tone lifting tensely. "You're going to get yourself killed next time.

::Punishing myself?:: John turned his head away. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"It's not your fault mom and dad died," Samantha blurted out. Her sudden words spread a cold shudder through John's already pain-stressed body. "I know you feel it is, but you're wrong, and what you're doing to yourself isn't--"

"Shut up!" John pushed himself abruptly upright as he glared at her. His fists trembled against the bed sheets. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

Samantha cringed back, just slightly, at his sudden volume. It raised in John that same, acute feeling of guilt he always felt when they met like this. Like when they used to walk home from school in silence, he with fresh bruises. When he first told her he was leaving to join the military, and slammed the door behind him. Samantha's eyes were lowered in disappointment, and the sight of her brought back to John the last words he remembered before that grenade went off.

::You remind me why I hate myself.::

John stared down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry, Sam."

It was a worthless apology he wouldn't back up with any action of remorse, and Samantha knew him well enough to accept that. She took a deep breath and lifted her head. "I came here to tell you something." When John reluctantly glanced back to her, she continued. "I'm going away."

"Away?" John frowned as something in his stomach churned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Samantha met his gaze firmly. "I'm going to Mars."

John's mind left him. He could only stare back at his sister as if not understanding the words coming out of her mouth. His hands were cold, and still shaking, as they tightened. ::What...?::

When he didn't respond Samantha swallowed hard and continued, as if expecting him to shout at any moment. "The dig is still sealed off," she explained. "But the research station is expanding--it's bigger than ever, and they need a forensic archeologist on the team. I'll be able to get my Ph.D. It's what I've always wanted, John."

John's brow furrowed as he followed the best he could with his disoriented thoughts. "You've...always wanted to go back...?" he said incredulously. The very thought terrified him.

"John..." Samantha reached out to take his hand, causing him to flinch. "That's not what I meant, but... yes. It's safe there, now, and--"

"It's not safe," John interrupted coldly.

Samantha pursed her lips. He could tell she was fighting not to argue with him, and that it made him look even more the child. "It is," she insisted evenly. "Will you at least be happy for me? I'm following my dream." She gave his hand a little squeeze. "It used to be your dream, too."

John shuddered, but he was too hurt and confused to offer any proper sentiments. Just by mentioning that place he was filled with memories. With his side still aching, those memories began to mix with more recent ones, until he couldn't distinguish in his mind between falling rocks showering shrapnel. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "No--enough, Sam. That's all over now. This is my life." He pulled his hand away from her. "And I know you didn't come here looking for my approval." ::You knew I'd never say I'm all right with this. So why did you even come here?:: John squeezed his eyes shut. ::Why do you always do this?::

Samantha leaned back, folding her hands instead in her lap. "You're right," she confessed softly. "I...don't expect you to like it." With a low sigh she pushed to her feet and straightened her sweater. "But you're still my brother. The least we can do is... be honest with each other, right?"

"Yeah..." John winced. "Right."

"I should go." She squeezed his shoulder, and got no response. "I'll write as soon as I'm up there, all right? I'll expect to hear from you."

John sagged, his arms struggling to hold his weight. He felt...numb. ::She's leaving, and I can't stop her. I can't protect her. As if I ever could...:: "I'll write," he promised.

"Thank you." Samantha smiled thinly. Just before she turned to leave he thought he saw moisture collect in her eyes, but he couldn't be sure.

John sank back down the mattress. His hands still felt week, and he folded them tightly over his stomach as he gradually calmed down. ::You shouldn't be surprised,:: he told himself. ::You left her a long time ago. It was only a matter of time before she did the same. Right? Sam can take care of herself. It's better this way. It is.::

John closed his eyes, hoping to slip back into unconsciousness until his commanding officer came to debrief him on the mission. ::I'm such a coward.::

 

 

 


End file.
